To the Sea
by turtlewexler
Summary: Just because she let him into her body, it doesn't mean she has a place in his life. It doesn't mean she was ever more to him than a partner in crime. It doesn't mean he wants her.


_Notes: This is set in an AU in which the war went on for several years longer than canon, and the Order knew that Snape was on their side. A Discord server I recently joined has been voting on our favourite tropes, and Mutual Pining won the first bracket. That, combined with a weird fever dream I had about Snape and Hermione as bank robbers inspired this fic. Thank you to Q_Drew for helping me out with some of the details of how to rob a bank with magic, so I didn__'t have to go Googling anything that would get me added to any watchlists. And thank you, as always, to Vitellia for her wonderful beta work._

_Warnings: mention of torture_

_**Additional note: I no longer post on this site.** I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to leave me a few words here, but I'm turning alerts off for now. If you'd like me to actually see your comment and reply to it, I go by **turtle_wexler on AO3.** Any new work I create will also be posted there._

* * *

**Now**

Hermione travels home from prison in Arthur's car, sitting in the exact spot where she once fucked Severus Snape.

Harry and Ron have no idea what took place in this backseat. They sit on either side of her, holding her hands and fighting sleep. Her boys—men, really, but they will always be _her boys_—came roaring into Azkaban straight from battle, lighting it up with their Patronuses.

As the North Sea disappears behind them, Molly turns around again and again, as if to reassure herself that their new passenger is still there. The plump hand that touches Hermione's cheek is the gentlest thing she has ever felt.

"More chocolate?" Arthur asks.

Why not? Hermione bites into the sweet offering, barely tasting it as it melts on her tongue.

A month. She was only in there for one month, and already this bright outside world is soft and surreal. A different life. As the dissolving chocolate lifts more of the Dementor-induced despair, questions about Snape jostle for space in her head. What is he doing now? Is he well? Does he know she was freed today?

She doesn't give the words breath. Why would he care about her release? Just because she let him into her body, it doesn't mean she has a place in his life. It doesn't mean she was ever more to him than a partner in crime.

It doesn't mean he wants her.

* * *

**Then**

"I've done some research," Hermione said. "The CEO of this bank supports all sorts of horrible—"

"Granger," Snape said, "you needn't justify what we're doing. I don't care if the CEO is a bloody saint. Which, I might add, is an unlikely status for a millionaire. We are attempting to save the world, Muggles included. Providing us with funds is the least they can do."

"We should have let Fred and George do this," she muttered. "They did volunteer."

Snape chuckled, the sound throaty and unfamiliar. He had chosen a Muggle man with a snub nose and freckle-carpeted skin as his disguise.

"I thought you were fond of those two," he said. "Why would you want to see them arrested?"

"Hmm. Good point."

Robbing a bank had been Hermione's idea. A tiny robbery. Miniature. Just enough to sustain them. As the war dragged on for year after draining year, their expenses kept building as their income kept shrinking. More and more of their members lived in hiding. The Death Eaters controlled everything: St Mungo's, Hogwarts, Gringott's, Azkaban. With Harry's fortune out of reach to them in his vault, the Order needed a new way to get money.

"Ready?" Snape asked.

She nodded. Pocketing their spare wands, they exited the car in unison. His steps matched hers, his hand extending in a silent offer that made her stomach do a strange little backflip. Nerves. Hermione twined her fingers together with his, the portrait of an average, unremarkable couple on their way to do some banking. Nothing to see here.

"We will join the queue calmly and quietly and wait our turn," Snape said.

"Of course we will. We're British."

He did not acknowledge this attempt at levity beyond a roll of his eyes. "No shouting for everyone to get down, no announcing our intentions. In other words: no foolish Gryffindor dramatics."

"Honestly, Snape. How many missions have we done together now?"

"Not enough."

A lie. In the years since he'd been her professor, they'd practically become partners—or as close to it as they could be, given his spying and teaching duties.

They went through their planned attack like a dance. Before approaching the building, she used the spells they had crafted together to disable the panic button and set the CCTV on a repeating loop. He whispered the Imperius Curse through his Polyjuiced smile once it was their turn at the counter. As if sensing her pang of guilt about the blank-eyed, obedient teller, Snape gave her hand a squeeze.

Trying to save the world. Right. Hermione memorised the name and the face. When the world was well and truly saved, she would find some way to make it up to the teller.

She tucked the cash into her beaded bag, easy and casual, as if it wasn't the most money she had ever held at one time. That steadying hand of his delayed her steps when she wanted to hurry out of the bank with their prize. Slowly, slowly. She could almost hear Snape's deep voice telling her to bloody well act normal.

Snape drove the disguised car back to the Weasleys, keeping to the speed limit. The tension holding Hermione's posture straight and thudding out a rapid beat in her chest didn't start to loosen until they passed the Almost Home Trees on the border of Devon and Cornwall. Pulling into the sheltering Fidelius of Shell Cottage, Snape came to a stop.

"We did it," she whispered.

"Quite."

The thrill that tingled through her made her wonder if this was what it was like to play Quidditch—if the exhilaration of catching the Snitch could compare to this rush. Their Polyjuiced disguises had worn off. The half-smile that Snape gave her was his own. An even bigger thrill.

* * *

**Now**

She is being set free today.

Her hideous cat, unnerving creature that it is, seems to know. It winds around Severus's ankles and yowls even after he has provided its breakfast. A second breakfast shuts it up.

Severus's own breakfast consists of black coffee and regret. A familiar brew.

A month. One month since he had to bite his tongue, fingernails digging crescents into his palms as he watched her tortured into unconsciousness on the Malfoys' drawing room table. If she was almost anyone else—anyone less valuable—she would have been killed right there in front of him. No amount of torture could make her give up Potter's location or her accomplice's name. His name.

A month since she kissed him, Gryffindor bold, and let him touch her.

Is she well? Does she suffer any after-effects of the Cruciatus? Will she pretend nothing ever happened between them?

The cat jumps onto his lap and kneads its claws into his thigh. Severus shakes his head. Granger wanted to feel something, and he was convenient. That's all.

It doesn't mean she wants him.

* * *

**Then**

It happened after their third heist.

The air in the car was electric, charged with the triumph of another success. Parking at the end of the drive to Shell Cottage, Severus took a deep breath.

"I'm beginning to suspect we should continue this line of work after the war," he said, only half joking. It was like a drug. "We appear to have a knack for it."

One of Granger's hands rested on his forearm, thumb sweeping back and forth. "Ah, but then you'd have to carry on working with me."

Someday, when the war was behind them, they would have no reason to work together. No reason to see each other except in passing in Diagon Alley. Unexpectedly, the thought of a Granger-free existence made Severus's stomach sink.

"There are worse fates than working with you," he said.

His voice came out huskier than intended. Severus stared through the windscreen, but a hand on his chin turned his face back towards Granger.

He would never be able to say how it started. Oh, he knew the mechanics of it quite well—the slide of her lips against his, soft and slow, would be forever imprinted on his mind. What he could not work out was what made Granger decide to kiss him in the first place.

"We do work well together," she said.

It sounded like an invitation. An invitation he accepted when her mouth found his again, when her kisses turned more urgent. The heat of her straddling his lap was set to a surprise soundtrack of her giggles when her elbow knocked against the horn.

"Backseat," she said.

Well, who was he to argue? When she climbed on top of him a second time, neither of them laughed. And, yes, they worked well together. Her breast fit into his hand, her lips and tongue moved perfectly against his. His breath stuttered, heartbeat pounding in his ears as she unfastened his trousers and stroked him.

Was this really happening? Was she really letting him shift her clothes, bare her skin, touch her where he liked? Was she really arching into his seeking fingers, whispering his name—his first name?

Oh, gods. She sank down on him, and Severus stopped questioning everything. Skimming his hands up her legs, he gripped her hips.

"Severus," she said, moving faster and faster.

Time blurred, became a swirl of pleasure and warmth that felt like it could stretch on forever. Distantly, he was aware that they could get caught. They needed to be quiet, but it was too good, too—

Throwing her head back, she let out a gasping moan that would have alerted anyone in the vicinity to their presence. He toppled over the edge with her, not giving a damn how loud he was. Drifting back to coherence, he became conscious of little things: heat-fogged car windows, the seatbelt jabbing him in the thigh, her satisfied giggle.

Before Severus could entirely get his bearings, his left arm erupted in pain. Fuck.

"What wrong?" she asked.

"I must go. I'm being summoned."

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Pushing his messy hair out of his face, she kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Be safe," she said. "I'll see you soon."

She wouldn't. Not anywhere she wanted to see him. After Severus ran off to answer the Dark Lord's summons, Granger Transfigured her face and walked into the village with her beaded bag to purchase food. Everything would have been fine if a Snatcher hadn't spotted her wand sticking out of her sleeve, if she had noticed the people following her.

If, if, if.

* * *

**Now**

The Almost Home Trees are still there, still untangling something in Hermione's gut the instant she sees them. Cornwall isn't truly her home, but she wants Shell Cottage for now. She wants the cliff-top view of the blue, blue sea that looks as if it cannot possibly be in the same hemisphere as Azkaban.

A select few wait for her along with Bill and Fleur: Neville, Luna, Ginny. All of them are painted with fresh scars from the final battle that Hermione missed. Neville and Ginny hug her the way everyone else has, as if she is made from spun glass. Only Luna squeezes her tight.

"He's at the campsite on the other side of the village, if you want to see him," Luna says.

Hermione starts. "Who?" Is she that transparent?

"Crookshanks, of course. Severus has him."

_Severus has him._ Hermione spends several moments rolling this over in her mind, teasing out possible meanings. Hope takes root before she can stop it, fluttering in her chest.

Luna draws a ticklish map on Hermione's palm, which proves surprisingly straightforward to follow. The Weasleys' tent is the lone occupant of the campsite, surrounded by bare winter trees and buffeted by strong winds.

"Hello?" she calls. "Snape?"

She can't quite bring herself to use his first name. Not yet. The tent flap lifts, and there he is, his face an expressionless mask. Hermione tries out a smile.

"Granger," he says. "Come in."

An invitation is a promising start. Crooks leaps into her arms and nuzzles his flat face against her neck, but he also swats her hand with his paw as if to scold her for staying away for so long. A magically heated blanket is heaped in one corner of the tent. Crooks curls up there when Hermione returns him to the ground, like it's his spot.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asks Snape. "You have a house."

He clears his throat. "I decided it would be convenient to be near the Weasleys as we tie up all of the loose ends."

"And you're… looking after my cat?"

"Few others can tolerate the beast."

Snape straightens the cuffs of his shirt, not looking at her. That stubborn hope grows and grows. The chill of the Dementors feels more distant than ever.

"So," she says. "Are we going to pick up where we left off? Robbing banks? We have a knack for it, or so I'm told. We work well together."

He arches an eyebrow, but otherwise displays no interest. Maybe Hermione is seeing what she wants to see. Maybe he really is here because it is convenient. Maybe he would have cared for the cat of any Order Member.

No. This is_ Snape. _He would have foisted anyone else's pet off on Molly.

"I am not certain I wish to pursue robbing banks as a full time profession," he says, "but we do work well together."

Hermione's hands tremble. "We could find other ways to work together."

Everything she wants is written on her face—it has to be. Snape scrutinises her for a moment before extending his arm, palm up. A familiar, silent offer. Linking her fingers with his, she steps closer.

"We could," he says.

"Or… or we could take some time off," she says. "Tour the country. I happen to know of a car we can borrow."

His faint smile is better than chocolate. This time, he kisses her first.


End file.
